


Bested

by dinsoku



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Disgusted France, Drabble, Dubious Consent, M/M, Medieval Battle, Public Masturbation, Sexual Assault, Sexually-Confused England, Swordplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-12 05:01:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15332358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinsoku/pseuds/dinsoku
Summary: Amidst the rush and panic of battle, England finds himself giving into his most primal urges, much to his dismay.





	Bested

It took him long enough, but he had bested him.

Not that England held any doubts over the inevitable outcome of their battle. None at all. He was simply surprised at how long the Frenchman lasted. Had he put up a fight? Most assuredly. His mind hadn’t been muddled with rage and rivalry enough to not give praise where it was due.

Hair matted with blood and dirt, shield dented from far too many blows, the shoulder clasp of his armour wrenched off and hanging by a single leather strap—England was in tatters after the other nation's skilful, experienced work of the sword. But! He was able enough to have a well-paced, mid-afternoon stroll in comparison to the state of his opponent. A small, satisfied smile wormed its way onto his lips at the thought of that.

France spat blood at him, gritting his teeth, as the cool metal of his blade pinched his neck. It tumbled down and soaked into the rough patch of facial hair; chin tilted upward to relieve some of the pressure at his throat. England, however, was unyielding. Legs straddled the other man and pinned him down into the muddy grass. The rush of the battle still raced through England's veins; heart pounding against his eardrums ad nauseam in spite of the assurance of victory. The triumphant smirk that followed was enough to alight the fire in France's eyes, though. They narrowed, accompanied by a fierce and ugly expression that simply didn't suit his clipped, porcelain features at all.

He should have sent the blade into his neck to secure his victory then and there. But, perhaps due to lingering adrenaline and the well of pride, England leaned forward to hiss a scathing remark in his ear. The sword must have dug a little along with the movement, though, and a guttural, drawn-out moan emitted from the man below him. He froze; watching the emotion slowly shift from one of fury to pain. For a long moment, England sat there and stared, transfixed. The well-placed insult was forgotten, swept away from his tongue and from his thoughts.

An urge—he couldn't think of a better term to describe it, really—struck him. There was hardly an inch of air between their bruised and battered bodies and England found himself inexplicably closing the gap. His tongue darted out first; grazing the other man's semi-parted lips. He stilled, then. The cogs in his mind struggled to catch up with the spontaneity of the action. And, before England could think to stop it, he was devouring France's lips like a wild animal—teeth gnashing and knocking together, saliva smearing against skin, the tangy taste of metal on his tongue. France grunted, an uncertain noise of half-disgust and half-surprise, muffled by his mouth and, just as suddenly, England broke the sloppy excuse for a kiss; his tongue running gracelessly along the corner of his lips and down the side of his face.

 _“Enculé,”_ the curse brushed passed his ear and he paused, if only for a moment, to grunt dismissively in reply.

But still he carried on as if he were a man possessed. Without thinking, his weight shifted across the man below him, lifting his hips to one side while still keeping him rather firmly pinned, as his hand shoved itself passed his own bothersome armour and slipped into the softer fabric of his pants. His palm met blisteringly-hot skin and a nudge of doubt crept into his mind before it was harshly discarded. His teeth scraped, tongue lapped, at the shell of France's ear as he worked his hand along his length, his motions lewd and unmistakable with the other nation squirming underneath him in protest.

The sounds of battle still echoed in the distance. Even as they faded into blissful, ambient noise, he realised France’s breaths had grown laboured and uneven, and he only had half a mind to notice or to question it. Was it due to him or the metal digging into his neck? Was that unreadable look only constructed of contempt? Muttered words in French flew passed his ear, too quick and hushed for him to catch or to care to try. England was only focused on one thing: his face screwed up, lips parted in a silent moan, fingers gripping the hilt so hard it left his knuckles white and caused the man below him to squirm even more. And, as quickly as it had washed over him, his orgasm shook him; leaving him tingly and damp and numb. That moan he held back until that point burst as waves of pleasure ran over him, and he was left a sputtering, hazy-minded wreck.

It had all happened so fast. Too fast. Over in a second. It was tempting to believe it hadn't happened at all, if it weren't for the quickly-cooling stickiness of his trousers and the look of disgust France shot his way.

Not a second had passed before shame hit him like a brutal, icy tidal wave. His shoulders tensed, his hand tightened around his sword, as the air was ripped from his lungs. France. He had just—what had he done? He sucked in a ragged breath; an acute sense of self-disgust rising in his chest and bile gathering in the back of his throat. He had just—

A knowing smirk tugged at the Frenchman's lips and no words had to be said. Immediately the pleasure and embarrassment he felt were stripped away solely by that smug, arrogant look.

A look that suited his clipped, porcelain features far _too_ well.

Anger rose to the forefront of his mind, fed by the fires of his humiliation, and it took him no time at all to shove the blade forward to wipe the look off his face—even if it would only be back to taunt him again.

**Author's Note:**

> I really have no justification for this drabble and I apologise for how horribly short (and likely unsatisfying) it is.


End file.
